


to feel your pulse through foreign skin

by Kierkegarden



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Ballroom Dancing, Canon compliant to all but CoG, Choking, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, Espionage, M/M, Polyjuice Potion, Possession, Sexual Content, Vienna, Winter 1927
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-27 18:07:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17166758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kierkegarden/pseuds/Kierkegarden
Summary: Albus Dumbledore tries his hand at British Magical Intelligence and Gellert Grindelwald treats him to a night he will never forget.





	to feel your pulse through foreign skin

**Author's Note:**

> For the wonderful [Meanwhiletimely](https://archiveofourown.org/users/meanwhiletimely/pseuds/meanwhiletimely). I cannot reccomend Illumine enough and clearly took much inspiration from it. Merry Christmas, my friend.

 

“If I can’t have love, if I can’t find peace, Give me a bitter glory.”

 _Rosary_ , Anna Akhmatova

 

 

  
It was twelve on the dot when Albus heard the loud knock on his office door. For all that could be said of Minister Fawley, all of the many gripes that the wizarding world had with him, his punctuality was not one of them. Albus had been dreading his visit, hoped the snow would be a deterrent and that perhaps Fawley would reschedule, but to no avail. He supposed it was for the best to get it over with.

Reaching into his never-ending candy jar for a lemon drop, and without getting up or moving very much at all, Albus unhinged his lock with a flick of his wand.

He popped the candy into his mouth. “Come in, Minister.”

The door creaked open and Fawley wiped his feet instinctively, although there was no mat. The poor man looked half-drowned and frozen to the bone, shivering in his hooded emerald robe. Snowflakes clung to the fabric like little white stars.

“Albus, hello. So good of you to see me, and on your vacation,” He seated himself on the other side of Albus’s desk, “I’m not used to seeing the castle so empty, it’s like a ghost town out there. Literally.”

“I presume Nicholas was the one who directed you, then?"

“Indeed,” Fawley nodded very quickly, “Although I still haven’t the faintest what use this school has for ghosts. Dead people, Albus, wandering the hallways like vagabonds. What message does that send the children?”

Albus smiled, as was his obligation. He had no affection for this Minister. As a politician, Hector Fawley was virtually useless and as a person, he was grating. At least, Albus supposed, he wasn’t unintelligible like McLaird or as blatantly destructive to wizardkind as Evermonde before him. In its own way, Albus supposed, Fawley’s inaction was a form of slow destruction, but he had no room to criticize that. Besides, the Ministry had been rotting from the inside out for some time now.

“I’m concerned. What could be so urgent that you’ve come all the way out to the Highlands to see me, Minister -- and during the week of Christmas no less?” Albus had engineered the question to sound polite, but he couldn’t keep the annoyance out of his voice. He had told the Ministry again and again that he wasn’t interested in whatever job they had to offer him. He busied his hands folding and refolding a small scrap of paper, a receipt from a muggle bookstore that he had visited the previous day.

Fawley leaned back in his chair, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand.

“I’m in a bit of a bind,” he closed his eyes for a moment, the age and stress sitting heavily on his brow, “Muffling charm?”

“Don’t bother,” Albus said, “My office has the full treatment. Student confidentiality and all that. Lemon drop?”

Gratefully, Fawley reached into the dish with vigor. He sighed. “Recently, I’ve received word from our continental eyes. The Austrian Magical Vice Premier has changed his coffee preferences. Suddenly.”

Albus’s lip twitched downwards. “Which set of eyes?”

“The coffee boy,” said Fawley, “But anyway, the Vice Premier’s gone from three cups to zero, overnight.”

“Oh,” said Albus, eyes twinkling, “That is troubling. And we can be sure that he’s not just discovered tea or going through some gastrointestinal troubles?”

“Albus,” Fawley’s tone was stern, “It’s not just the coffee. He’s been taking an increased interest in Muggle affairs. The Austrian Ministry has just passed new legislation ensuring a wizard representative in muggle parliament -- after what happened in America last year. And the escape! And now Grindelwald’s gone dark again...you have to admit, it all lines up a bit too well.”

Albus’s smile dropped entirely, suddenly gripping the receipt very tightly between his forefinger and thumb, “Who put you up to this? And why hasn’t it gone through the Wizengamot? And why the private meeting?”

Fawley wrung his hands against the desk, looking altogether miserable. “The aurors are threatening to take matters into their own hands. Theseus Scamander informed me yesterday. If I don’t follow up on this, they will be sending in their own task force.”

“Oh dear.” Albus felt himself go cold. His own distaste for Fawley aside, a task force of aurors invading the Austrian Ministry on Britain’s behalf would not reflect well. It was exactly what Gellert would want, the perfect excuse for a declaration of war.

Fawley sniffed. “I suppose...well, I suppose we have to do something eventually.”

“What are you proposing?”

“Perhaps,” Fawley took a deep breath, “ _you_ could go. Call it a diplomatic mission. Have a drink, see the sights, probe him on his new opinions.”

Albus almost burst out laughing. It would certainly make a statement, tumbling right back into Gellert’s arms. Their history aside, that was quite possibly the worst idea he could think of. Or -- if this far-fetched conspiracy theory turned out to be only that -- a pleasant night out on the town with a different handsome Austrian. Albus hadn’t gone on a date in years.

“I have plenty of contacts,” Albus said, “Old students of mine who, unlike Theseus Scamander, possess the gift of subtlety.”

“No!” Fawley half-shouted, before reddening and huffing down in his seat, “We can’t possibly involve more people! My position as Minister is on the line! Once the vacuum opens --” Albus noted the shade of Fawley’s cheeks to be exactly like an unripe plum. There were tears in his eyes. “-- Once the vacuum opens, there will be contenders lining up to fill the ring. It will be the Dupont resignation of 1858 all over again!”

Albus rooted through his desk drawer until he found a handkerchief and offered it to the Minister. “Now Hector,” he said warmly, “You are nothing like Minister Dupont.”

“But I could be!” Fawley took the handkerchief and blew his nose -- loudly -- into it’s white creases, “Tell me, Albus, we’re friends, right? Would you not do this little favor for your old friend?”

Albus frowned. He had never considered Minister Fawley a friend and had certainly not mentally prepared himself for the most powerful man in wizarding England to be sobbing uncontrollably at his desk.

“I…” he stammered, “I would need a supply of polyjuice and a file on a willing diplomat. You have to understand that I’m not going to put myself in danger for this.”

“Of course,” Fawley nodded, dabbing his cheeks, “Oh, thank Merlin. I knew you’d come through for me.”

“No arrests, no violence, we stay in the public eye at all times. And it has to all be done before Christmas vacation is over. I do plan on returning to Hogwarts as soon as this is squared away. To be clear, I simply would be gathering intelligence, an educated guess on whether this man _is_ Grindelwald, or a fanatic, or simply having a bad week with digestion.”

“Certainly! I’ll supply you with everything you need, the day after tomorrow. The sooner we get you to Vienna, the better,” Fawley knocked his fist twice against the cherrywood, rattling Albus’s pensieve, “If all else fails, consider it a Christmas vacation on the Ministry’s dime. I’ve heard Austria is beautiful this time of year.”

 

International travel by portkey always left Albus a bit rattled. All things considered, the potted plant that Fawley had left him the previous morning was a smooth trip, but Albus hadn’t expected the shrill screech of automobiles to sound in his ears as soon as he hit the ground.

Gathering his bearings, Albus got up, dusted himself off, and made his way out of the alley. He looked around the crowded street. If there was one thing that could be said for this city, it was certainly picturesque. The awninged store fronts stretched parallel to the pavement, which was in turn, parallel to the street. It went on as far as the eye could see, a smaller scale man-made horizon. Albus spotted at least a dozen automobiles parked beside cast iron street lamps, each displaying proudly printed advertisements for coffee shops, opera houses and ballrooms. In the background, the alps loomed like sentinels stretching up to their own snow capped peaks.  

The other pedestrians, if Albus had to guess, were a mix of Muggles and well-disguised wizards. They paid him no mind as he stopped by a coffee shop to pull a weather-worn map from his coat pocket. Glancing for landmarks, he reoriented himself accordingly. Albus was supposed to meet Vice Premier Pichler right here at 4PM. It was 4:02.

Sighing, Albus folded the map back into his pocket. He ordered a black tea from the attendant and took it to steep at a table by the window. This particular shop was dimly lit by candlelight, an awfully romantic atmosphere for a daytime destination. There was a shelf of books along one wall, and Albus could see a few other patrons at tables by themselves, reading or writing or simply gazing out the window.

He studied his own reflection in the glass. It was fortunate for Albus that the man he was channeling today was actually a dear friend. Henry Potter had a mass of wavy black hair, an unruly salt-and-pepper beard, and fawn skin. His eyes were light brown and he was a bit shorter than Albus. As a fellow member of the Wizengamot, Henry was deeply concerned with justice in legislation, and deeply worried about Fawley’s inattentive governing. Unlike Albus, however, Henry had grounds to make these complaints. He had dedicated his life to it.

The chimes that sat atop the door jingled slightly, and Albus looked at his watch. Pichler was only six minutes late in the end. Albus was aware that continental Europe didn’t have the same cultural disdain for tardiness as his motherland, but it still irked him. The fact that he was even here in the first place irked him.

He stood up, smiling anyway, at the figure approaching him. The Vice Premier was only in his thirties, with a stern look about him. His hair was as blond as Gellert’s but clipped short to his head. He had very high cheekbones and a long blue robe.

“Ah, Herr Potter,” Pichler gripped Albus in a quick embrace, patting his back as he let him go, “I thought that was you over there.”

“Vice Premier Pichler, what a pleasure. Thank you for meeting me all the way out here -- and in winter, no less.”

Pichler’s lips tightened into what Albus guessed must be his version of a smile. “Nonsense. Winter is the best time to come to Austria. But such short notice? You must be well-compensated for the way our ministries have tugged you around! Let me buy you a drink.”

Albus looked down at his tea, eyes narrowing. Pichler had a heavier accent than Gellert, but they shared the same musical tonality. Perhaps, he thought, it was just an Austrian linguistic quirk.

“I would not spend the holidays anywhere else,” he said evenly, “but I’ve already made a fool of myself and ordered. Surely I can get you something to make up for my celerity.”

“Ah,” said Pichler, as Albus decided that he was not only handsome but attractive to boot, “but you’ve made a crucial error, my friend. Let me reseat you, if I may. Leave your tea, Mr. Potter, you shan't be needing it.”

Dumbly, Albus stood and followed Pichler to the very back of the coffee house, where a curtain separated the smoking area from the main floor. The Vice Premier lifted it invitingly and Albus walked through, coughing as the rich smell of tobacco filled his nose.

When he opened his eyes, he gasped. The bright light of ten crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling was all but blinding after the dark of the coffee house. The room had opened up into a circular balcony, looking down on a tremendous ballroom. Below, an orchestra pit seated a mass of uniformed musicians. The true gem of the room was the dance floor, where witches and wizards were waltzing in the finest robes that Albus had ever seen.

When he had finally gotten his breath back, Albus turned to Pichler who was looking up at him with a mischievous smile.

“Well?”

Albus adjusted his spectacles. “You, Mr. Pichler, have not failed to amaze me. Nor has the magic of your beautiful city.”

“Yes,” the Austrian closed his eyes with a satisfied sigh, “It is magical, isn’t it? Let us hope it stays this way for many more years.”

“Was that a hint of sinister in your tone or is it simply my British drear?”  
  
When the other man tilted his head back to laugh, a sound like little bells escaped his lips. There was no mistaking that Albus had heard it before and its music sent a shiver down his spine. Gellert’s laugh was distinctive, a colorblind memory suddenly flooded with vividity. Albus could feel his fingertips go cold against the metal railing of the balcony. Pichler ignored his question, perhaps deeming the laugh answer enough.

“Let me buy you that drink, Mr. Potter,” he said instead, “They have the most delicious winter specialties here. A mulled wine? A pumpkin brandy?”

Albus forced himself to smile. “If you must spoil me, I’ll copy your order.”

“Ah, well then. I’ll simply call for a bottle of imported champagne and save the trouble.”

Before Albus could argue, Pichler had pushed his way through the crowd and was headed down the steep staircase towards what Albus presumed must be the bar. That side of the ground floor was so crowded with bodies it was pointless to try and pick out the Vice Premier. Instead, Albus watched the dancers from above as they spun hypnotically this way and that.

In what felt like another lifetime, Gellert had treated him to his own version of a Viennese waltz, in the half-light of the Bagshot library with an audience of ancient books. They had only been boys then, and Albus still a believer in fairytales like true love, destiny, and the Deathly Hallows. If he focused on the symphony and the dancing and the elegant decor, he could almost imagine that such things were real again.

Shaking his head, Albus reached into his cloak pocket for his flask of polyjuice. It was probably better he steal a swig before his host returned. As his lips puckered around the bitter taste, he couldn’t help but picture Gellert, down by the bar, doing the exact same thing.

Before long, Albus picked Pichler out of the crowd, following him with his eyes as he climbed back up the stairs to stand by Albus’s side.

“Here,” the Austrian lifted an impossibly huge bottle out of his robes, followed by two delicate glasses, “Only the best for my guest. I hope you remember tonight fondly.”

Albus took the glass, bowing his head in thanks. He wondered vaguely to himself if he would have to talk politics before confirming that this was, in fact, Gellert he was dealing with. He was all but certain.

“So,” Albus cleared his throat when the champagne was poured. He lifted the glass to his lips, letting the sweet fizzy liquid sit on his tongue. Pichler was not joking around, it was the best he had ever tasted. He dreaded to know the price point of such a bottle.

“ _So,”_ Albus tried to regather his thoughts once again, “As much as I’m tempted to spend the rest of the evening sipping and chatting with the most charming company I’ve had the pleasure of making in a long time, I need to ask. The recent legislation to send a representative to muggle parliament, is there precedent? What does Britain need to know about this decision, as Austria’s ally in Wizarding World affairs?”

Pichler frowned slightly, sipping at his champagne. “It’s a terrible business,” he said, at last, “With the revolt in July, over a thousand injured, almost a hundred killed. Three of whom were wizards, I might add.”

“I’m so sorry. Britain’s full condolences, such a horrible tragedy.”

“Indeed,” Pichler looked grim, “We can’t justify being in the dark any longer. Muggles are rioting, stampeding their own governments, killing each other. We can't afford to be caught in the crossfire and besides," the Vice Premier drained his glass in one easy gulp, "We could learn a lot from their mistakes.”

A cold shiver went down Albus’s spine. “What...what do you mean?”

“It doesn’t hurt to be aware. To be preventative,” Pichler looked directly at him, “I think there are many wizards out there who have a problem with the way men like you and I do business, Mr. Potter. We should be afraid.”

Albus looked up in horror at the man behind that piercing gaze, a man who he had loved and hated, a man who he had struggled with so violently in his dreams. He took another drink and looked Gellert in the eyes.

“Are you referring to Gellert Grindelwald and his fanatics?”

The Vice Premier’s lips curled into a real smile. A Gellert smile. “Among others, yes. Although I know that your Minister doesn’t agree so I won’t push the subject.”

Albus leaned in. He could feel the champagne warming his cheeks and could smell it on Gellert’s breath. “To hell with the Minister,” he could feel himself saying, “Between the two of us, I couldn’t agree with you more.”

“Mr. Potter, I am delighted,” Gellert’s fingertips brushed Albus’s as he reached to refill his glass, “You are a _very_ interesting man.”

“I’m glad you think so, and I’m so sorry I have to spoil it. My views are not unlike the rest of the Wizengamot. We are prepared to keep Grindelwald at bay. Despite the Minister.”

“To that I drink,” Gellert extended his glass, letting it clink slightly against Albus’s, and drained it.

They sat in silence. Albus was almost worried that Gellert could hear his heart racing as loudly as it sounded in his own ears. The dancers below blurred in daubs of color, a painting laid out before them. At length, Gellert extended his hand -- Pichler’s hand, a foreign hand, pale and bony but Gellert’s nonetheless.

“Shall we?”

“Go? Already?”

“Nonsense!” Gellert was exceptionally close to Albus’s face, as he realized with a jolt, that in these foreign bodies, they were finally around the same height, “Do you think I would take you to a ballroom and not give you a dance?”

“I’m,” Albus started, “I’ve only danced once before. I’d butcher the art.”

“I insist,” Gellert smiled, a new, sinister expression in his eyes, “I’ll lead. It would be a crime to take this from me. Are you a criminal, Mr. Potter?”

Albus looked away, miserably.“I’m going to pretend to understand what you’re implying.”

“Good. Then you will understand that this isn’t a request.”

They made their way down the staircase, leaving the empty bottle and glasses behind. It was only as he started to move that Albus realized how inebriated he was. He could feel himself sway, almost falling down the second-to-last stair, as Gellert reached around to steady him. He extended his hand to Albus, pulling him out onto the floor.

Albus let Gellert position his other hand around Pichler’s forearm. He shifted, extending his feet to match his partner, and tried not to shiver as Gellert placed his hand on the small of his back.

“Now,” he whispered, breath heavy and warm against Albus’s cheek, “simply follow.”

 

They danced three separate waltzes, and with each one, Albus began to further regain his bearings. The alcohol lessening in his bloodstream did nothing, however, for his racing thoughts. It was horrifying, Albus thought, he was dancing with the most dangerous fugitive in the world. He was drinking with him. He couldn’t justify it to himself, no matter how hard he tried.

There was no forgiveness. The memories of Gellert torturing his brother, of his sister’s casket hitting the hard soil, were still emblazoned like a fresh brand. Albus would carry it with him always. There should have been nothing gratifying about tonight, that dark need was gone, long burned out of Albus by harsh reality. And yet.

After the orchestra had stopped playing, Gellert pulled him back into the margins of the ground floor. Pichler’s eyes were shining and he was smiling incandescently -- a stark contrast to his earlier grimace.

“Thank you for the lovely dances,” said Albus, bowing, “If this wasn’t Ministry business, I would think it the most pleasant date I’ve had in a long time.”

“Why not both?” Gellert was pulling him somewhere, Albus didn’t know where and at this point, it could have been anywhere and he still would have followed. They pushed past the tremendous crowds surrounding the bar, a grandiose display of liquor and sensuality that Albus couldn’t help but stare at.

“Why not _both_?” Albus laughed, taken aback, “Do you often have affairs with foreign diplomats?”

“No,” Gellert’s voice was both flat and honest, “but as I said earlier, you interest me, Mr. Potter, you in particular. Do you have accommodations?”

Albus let himself be pulled out the back door of the ballroom, into an entirely different street than he had been on before. By the looks of it, this was Wizarding Vienna. The sky had darkened during their time in the ballroom, but the nightlife was no less bustling. A group of witches in elegant ruffled robes pushed by them, one of whom had an eagle perched on her shoulder.

Realizing that it was futile, that this whole damned plan was mad to begin with, Albus gave in.

“I don’t believe I have any hard and fast plans,” he said with a smile, “Do you know somewhere I should stay?”

Gellert led him, hand-in-hand, across the street to a massive, baroque style building. “This is, conveniently, the finest hotel in Vienna. Let me book us a room.”

Albus shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t do that. You’ve been treating me all night, you must let me have some reciprocation.”

“Oh, I will,” said Gellert with a smile and he left it at that, as they went inside.  
  
Albus was beginning to get the sense that everything in Vienna was beautiful. The lobby, with it’s tiny statuettes and marble flooring. The hallways, with their chiseled gold-leaf paneling. Their room, a tremendous suite, was an homage to indulgence itself with its canopy bed and lion-footed dresser. And then there was Gellert.

Albus wasn’t sure if the polyjuice was wearing off or if his mannerisms were simply shining through as the night wore on. He was unsure how he had ever mistaken this man for the Austrian Vice Premier. An almost hedonistic sense of satisfaction filtered through him as he admired Pichler’s silhouette against the drawn white curtain.

“Come,” Albus said, in a low voice that surprised even himself.

Gellert smirked, sauntering over to him. “Already? But the night’s only just begun.”

Albus reached his arm around the back of Gellert’s neck, grabbing what little of his hair he could hold on to, and directed it towards him, with no real gentleness. He could feel his thoughts turning to a low drone, something animalistic taking over. Their breath mingled, Albus pulling him closer until their lips finally met, moving together, pressed together, consuming. In another history, Albus thought, they wouldn’t have to rely on foreign bodies. They wouldn’t have to rely on unsent letters and crutches and memories in a pensieve. The thought filled him with a sense of urgency -- something almost like anger. He pushed Gellert backward onto the bed, breaking their kiss. Gellert’s lidded eyes looked back up at him, as he let out a breathy gasp.

“You weren’t joking about reciprocation, Mr. Potter,” he whispered, “I would have never guessed you had it in you.”

“Stop talking.” Albus pulled Gellert’s robes off in one solid motion of his arm, undoing the belt and pulling it out from under him. His face twisted from pain -- probably, Albus thought, the burn of the textiles pulled away, sandwiched between his body and the mattress. Albus shocked himself with how little he cared, both his tone and the intensity of his magic ridden with his resentment.

Gellert smiled through his grimace, suddenly taking a dark tone, "You always liked my pillow talk. That’s what you used to say.”

Albus forced himself to ignore him, pushed through the little alarm bells sounding in his mind. He knows, Albus thought, of course he knows. He would know. How long has he known?

He distracted himself by pressing his torso down across Gellert’s thighs and hastily unbuttoning his own shirt. He could feel Gellert’s erection pressing up against him through his underwear, waves of heat coiling in his stomach at its touch. Ridding himself of his final articles of clothing, he alleviated the pressure on Gellert’s body enough for him to do the same.

Henry Potter was strong, stronger than Albus by a long shot. That only made it all the more satisfying to grab Pichler’s narrow shoulders and flip him over onto his knees. Gellert purred into the roughness, settling himself against Albus. It was almost organic. It was almost real. Albus could feel both suits of foreign skin sear against each other. It made him feel like a character in a play, the interchangeability of these bodies was almost laughable. It was never about the bodies, after all, he thought. It was about him and Gellert -- two infallible minds that had somehow found an impasse they had never been able to breach.

He pressed his forefinger against Gellert’s entrance, wandlessly coating it with oil. It had not sunk past his knuckle before Gellert groaned, a raw and filthy sound. He pushed back, fucking himself on it, more and more vigorously as Albus added another digit. At long last, Albus leaned in, pulling Gellert back against him as he pressed inside.

His breath stopped, and started again, mind buzzing numbly because to some degree, it _had_ been about bodies and Merlin, Albus had craved this for over two decades. He rutted, pushing again and again, hands searching for something to hold on to in lieu of hair. They finally settled around Gellert’s throat, pulling him upwards in a near-impossible arch as the steady pounding rhythm shook the entire bed.

Gellert spluttered, gasping as he looked back at Albus. Horrified, Albus loosened his grip on Gellert’s upper body, rewarding him for turning back towards the mattress with a slick grip on his cock. He hated this foreign man’s face wearing all of Gellert’s best expressions. He hated himself for defiling two innocent bodies, pulling them into this fucked up web of lies.

But _Merlin._ To have Gellert again, completely and utterly, it was worth it. He hated himself for believing that.

Albus could feel the world slipping away from him as Gellert arched back, taking his thrusts farther and farther. They were breathing wildly, in time with one another, and that was enough for Albus to know that Gellert was close. He could feel the tension snaking through his blood, pounding in his mind. All of a sudden, Gellert whined, shrill and desperate, bringing himself to his own release in Albus’s hand.

Albus nearly saw white behind his eyelids as he heard Gellert’s voice choking around his name. _His_ name, not Mr. Potter, not Henry, but _Albus_ \-- as he was to Gellert, no matter whose body he was wearing. He held his breath, riding the waves of his climax to its completion before collapsing, exhausted beside the other man.

They didn’t touch. Gellert sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his throat where Albus’s handprint was still visible. Albus reclined, watching him. At long last, Gellert broke the silence.

“Well,” he started, “You’ll have quite the story for your Minister for Magic when you get back to Britain.”

Albus rubbed the bridge of his nose beneath Henry Potter's spectacles, where a dab of sweat had glued them uncomfortably, “How did you -- when did you know it was me?”

Gellert laughed. “I think it was somewhere between “to hell with the Minister” and the doe eyes you were making while you danced with me. What about me?”

“It was easy. I had a strong feeling as soon as I heard you laugh.”

They sat in another stretch of silence, a silence more comforting than alienating. Then Albus sat too, scooting forward to be beside Gellert.

“Now what?” He asked, to the silence.

“That depends. Are you willing to uproot your life as a teacher and part time spy?”

“Pardon me?”

“Ha,” Gellert preened, pushing his own sweat around in his hair to resituate it, forcing the follicles to one again fall in one direction, “I assume what’s next is that you return to Britain while I return to the next phase of my mission and leave this old body behind. I’m about done here anyway.”

“What’s next?” Albus asked, “Paris? Berlin? What other wizarding power has been missing your heavy-handed direction?”

Gellert looked at him sideways. “Maybe best to stick to teaching. You’re a terrible intelligence agent.”

“I figured you out, didn’t I? That’s something.”

Gellert made a quiet noise of accord before, quite suddenly, reaching his fingers towards a lock of Albus’s hair.

“Auburn,” said Gellert, starry-eyed. “It’s time you drink up, my dear, lest I fall in love with you again.”

Albus could feel himself flush. “How do _you_ do it?”  
  
Gellert’s immaculate disguise had not so much as budged a centimeter the entire evening. For all the world could tell, Albus had still spent a night of romance with the Austrian Vice Premier. It was almost comical to imagine now, after all the night had offered him.

Gellert smiled, in a way that Albus supposed intentionally echoed Pichler’s. “Some things are better left quiet.”

“Hm,” Albus pushed Gellert’s fingers away from his hair, reaching down into his discarded robes for his flask, not bothering with subtlety as he took another sip.

“I’ll be on my way,” said Gellert, “Unless you would prefer me spend the night. The room is paid for.”

“Best you leave,” Albus wanted so much to justify otherwise, but he was coming up empty. For almost two long years, Gellert Grindelwald had been the British Ministry’s Most Wanted. Albus pictured what Fawley would say if he had known that Albus had him -- quite literally -- between his fingertips, only to let him go. He shook his head.

Gellert quickly dressed himself, spraying a small jar of perfume on his inner wrists as he went. He walked over to Albus, still very much naked on the edge of the bed, and bowed to him, kissing his hand.

“Thank you for the lovely night,” he said, “I hope I get to see you again, Albus, before the end.”

Albus said nothing.

 

The Minister looked a far cry from how Albus had left him, sobbing and spluttering. His own office was far neater than Albus’s, with a filing system magically sorting parchment into piles. He reached upwards, taking a letter from talons of an owl that was swooping down overhead.

Albus let himself in, making eye contact and a curt smile. He sat down across from the Minister, patiently watching as he read.

“Aha,” Fawley murmured, “Very interesting.”

He took a bite of his danish, letting it hang in his mouth as he folded the parchment back into his envelope.

“From Vienna, actually,” he gestured to the letter, crumbs flying from his lips, “It’s the coffee boy.”

“ _Muffliato_ ,” said Albus, flicking his wand upwards. The Minister looked back at him gratefully.  
  
“What does the coffee boy have to say?”

“Apparently the Austrian Vice Premier has begun requesting his full three cups again. But still, we can never be too careful. I’m grateful that you lent me your time and skill, my old friend.”

“It was nothing,” Albus said, looking blankly forward. It had been less than a fortnight since his trip to Vienna. Gellert moved quickly. If the Ministry’s best flyer was reporting just now, Albus estimated that Vice Premier Pichler must have been reinstated within the week. Gellert could be anywhere by now. Albus shuddered.

Minister Fawley, however, looked absolutely elated. “I should ask if you discovered anything noteworthy anyway. These new policies with the muggle government, very interesting business. What did Pichler have to say of that?”

“He is worried that the Wizarding World is being swept up in muggle unrest. And he worries that Grindelwald might take this opportunity to inspire a revolt against the Austrian Ministry.” It wasn’t untrue, Albus thought, and the Minister could definitely do to hear it.

Fawley clicked his tongue. “We give Grindelwald too much credit. Clearly.”

He gestured to Albus, who was looking down.

Albus felt absolutely powerless. Any more information would be useless for Fawley and career-ending for himself. He supposed that it was just another one of the many secrets he would be forced to live with; the crushing weight of them beginning to bear down on his shoulders.

“Cheer up, Albus,” Fawley scooted his chair back with a loud screech and walked around his desk to extend Albus a hand, bringing him to his feet, “If ever the Ministry suspects Grindelwald may be impersonating a politician again, I know exactly who I’ll call.”

He winked as Albus stood there, dumbfounded.

“Minister Fawley,” he started, “With all due respect…”

“Come now! Even the great Albus Dumbledore can’t be too noble to turn down free international vacations!” Fawley patted him on the back and Albus sunk into a heavier posture.

“I suppose we’ll discuss it then.”

“I suppose so,” the Minister agreed, “I’ll be seeing you Albus. Happy Christmas, belated though it may be, and a happier new year to come!”

“And to you,” Albus forced himself to smile as he turned to leave.  
  
The frigid January air stung his cheeks as he apparated by the station, and he felt disquieted. Albus knew in his heart of hearts that happier years were a long way off. Full scale war was creeping ever closer and there was no stopping its eventual grasp. Grindelwald was no gentleman and Europe was about to be shaken to its core. Even still, Albus thought, pulling his worn old Gryffindor scarf tighter around his shoulders, it had been nice to play pretend, if only for one evening.

**Author's Note:**

> Priscilla Dupont was the Minister from 1855-1858. She conceived an irrational loathing of the Muggle Prime Minister Lord Palmerston, to an extent that caused such trouble (coins turning to frogspawn in his coat pockets, etc.) that she was forced to step down. Given the circumstances of such bizarre and petty muggle-baiting, I suspect that she had a very poor reputation in wizarding politics.
> 
> The First Austrian Republic (1919-1934) was a period of civil unrest, protest, and clashes between the extreme left and right wing parties. As Gellert is implied to be of Austrian descent and is likely well-connected there, I can only imagine that he would use this to his advantage.
> 
> A note on geographical accuracy, as pointed out to me by the wonderful Phoenixfeather: the Alps are not actually visible from Vienna. I hope I am not breaking any hearts by leaving that line, mountains make everything more grandiose and romantic.
> 
> Feel free to reach out to me on my Tumblr, by the same name. I'm always down for a good conversation about Grindeldore and/or history.


End file.
